


Of Parseltongue and Purple Mushrooms

by GallifreyisBurning



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Interfering Friends, M/M, Parseltongue, Podfic & Podficced Works, Post-War, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, convenient herbology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 07:04:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21442183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallifreyisBurning/pseuds/GallifreyisBurning
Summary: Draco Malfoy is SURE that Harry Potter is up to something. He's avoiding Malfoy, turning red when Draco's around, and spending way too much time conversing with a garden snake. Determined to find out what's going on, Draco enlists the help of his new friend Neville Longbottom to get to the bottom of things.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 36
Kudos: 918





	Of Parseltongue and Purple Mushrooms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wynnyfryd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnyfryd/gifts).

> This fic was prompted by my amazing Drarry Discord chat, which wanted a fluffy piece where Draco wants to find out what Harry is discussing with his snake pal in Parseltongue.
> 
> Now available in [podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27266533) form from the amazing Semperfiona!

Draco peered out one of the tall, pointed cathedral windows in the new Eighth Year common room down into a small courtyard, where Harry Potter was sitting cross-legged on the likely quite cold brick ground surrounded by evergreen hedges, seemingly deep in conversation with a small green garden snake. “What is he  _ doing _ ?” Draco asked himself under his breath, not for the first time. He rested his forehead against the cool glass. This was driving him absolutely insane.

When they’d returned for their eighth year at Hogwarts after the war, Draco had not expected to receive a particularly warm welcome from his classmates. Truth be told, he’d expected to be hexed every time he turned a corner—and in a school like Hogwarts, that was bound to be quite often. However, at their very first dinner back, Potter had approached him, looking grimly determined. Flanked by his permanent entourage of Granger and Weasley, he had looked down at Draco where he sat alone at the end of the Slytherin table, flashing green eyes meeting Draco’s head on.

“Malfoy,” he’d greeted him, in a voice that would have seemed casual if they weren’t being stared at by almost every student in the Great Hall and if it wasn’t clearly pitched to carry. “We wanted to thank you for not giving us away at the manor. I’d like if we could start over this year. Friends?” And, unbelievably, he had held out his hand.

Draco had frozen in shock, eyes wide, and the silence had gone on for a beat too long before Granger had cleared her throat and snapped him out of his daze. Clasping Potter’s hand firmly, secretly savoring the feel of the warm, calloused skin, he’d given his head a shake to clear it before enunciating just loudly enough that it would also carry without seeming pointed, “Thank you, Potter. For saving us all. Friends.” Harry’s eyes, at Draco’s response, had been knowing. This hadn’t been a mere renunciation of a rivalry; it had been a public performance—an announcement that The Chosen One did not hold a grudge against the Slytherins, or Malfoy, and that neither should anyone else. Draco wasn’t sure if McGonagall had put him up to it, or if the Golden Trio had decided they should set an example, but whatever the reason, something loosened inside Draco’s chest. Unclasping their hands, Potter had nodded at Draco once before turning to walk away. Draco had exchanged small nods with Granger and Weasley as well, and they had followed Potter back across the hall—where conversation was beginning to resume—to the Gryffindor table. 

After that, Potter had continued to be unfailingly cordial to Draco. Draco thought he likely could have set off their old rivalry again without too much effort, but he was too grateful not to be hassled by people the Dark Lord had hurt to think it a particularly wise thing to test. Over time, they had gone from nodding at one another, to exchanging brief greetings, to occasionally discussing assignments, to—improbable as it might have seemed—being something that could almost be called friends. Much of this was probably due to the fact that all of the so-called eighth year class had been roomed together in a formerly unused suite of rooms at the end of a winding corridor on the first floor of the castle. A large number of their classmates had elected not to return for the final year, so there were only two rooms of girls and two rooms of boys, each with four or five students in it. Their classes were also together, as the teachers had decided not to push the returning students into seventh year classes and overfill the classrooms. It would have been a little difficult  _ not _ to end up almost-friendly with people you spent that much time with and were determined not to have to duel anytime soon.

In fact, Draco ended up friends with almost all of the returning students. As one of only four Slytherins from their year to return (the others being Blaise Zabini, Milicent Bulstrode, and Daphne Greengrass), none of whose families—other than the Malfoys—had taken sides in the war, Draco had assumed that he would be shunned by most of his classmates. He’d somehow ended up rooming with the three returning Gryffindor boys (Longbottom, Weasley, and Potter), however, and had almost immediately struck up an odd sort of camaraderie with Longbottom following a long and extremely uncomfortable apology on Draco’s part for years of bullying and a lack of moral fortitude during the war. Having witnessed how Longbottom held the students together and kept them from giving up the previous year, Draco could see why he had become a sort of de facto second-in-command to the reluctant leadership of Harry within their cohort, and was therefore unsurprised when Longbottom’s approval of him seemed to signal to everyone else that it was time to let bygones be.

So Draco and Potter had become something like friends, occasionally partnering in class, helping each other with homework from time to time (Potter really was pants at potions, but he made up for it by being an excellent DADA tutor), and even, on one particularly memorable Hogsmeade weekend, helping each other drunkenly stumble back to Hogwarts, leaning heavily on one another for balance after one or three too many firewhiskeys. And if Draco could still remember the heat of Potter’s breath against his skin as the boy had laughed after falling sideways and barely catching himself by grabbing Draco in a tight hug, well, that was no one’s business but his own. 

Recently, however, “something like friends” had become more like “people who are awkwardly avoiding each other,” and Draco had no idea why. Potter had stopped chatting easily with him, instead tripping over words, turning red, and quickly excusing himself from attempts at conversation. When they partnered in class, Potter rarely made eye contact, and their formerly smooth work style had become stilted. Draco had gone through his memories with a fine-toothed comb attempting to think of how he might have accidentally offended the other boy, but he always drew a blank. He’d even screwed up his courage and asked Longbottom about it, but the boy had simply given him a sympathetically knowing smile and an unhelpfully vague, “It’s him, not you. I’m sure it will be fine,”

Now, two weeks after Potter had begun acting like he had a mumbling hex on him, the infuriating man had taken to chatting with snakes. Draco had caught him at it three times now (not that he was following him or anything), and he was convinced that the Gryffindor must be up to something. 

He had said as much to Longbottom, walking up to the comfortable chair the other boy was ensconced in across from the fireplace and giving his dramatic declaration. Longbottom had opened his mouth to respond, but had been immediately interrupted by a choking cough from Ron Weasley, who had turned the corner into the common room just in time to overhear. Staring at them, shock turning to humor on his face, Weasley shook his head and let out a bark of laughter. “Oh, Hermione’s going to piss when I tell her this,” he grinned. 

“Tell her what?” Longbottom queried, sounding confused.

“Don’t worry about it, mate,” Weasley told him, still smiling. “Just glad to see it isn’t one-sided.”

A look of dawning comprehension crossed Longbottom’s face and he grinned back at the other boy. “Not a chance,” he agreed.

“What?” Draco asked after Weasley had left the room. “What was that about?”

“Nothing important, forget it,” Longbottom said dismissively, “Why do you think Harry’s up to something?”

Successfully distracted, Draco dove back into his rant. “He keeps talking to that bloody snake!” he exhorted, “It’s always the same one, I can tell. What’s he hiding that he can only tell a snake?!” He flopped dramatically onto the chair across from the other boy. “I wish I knew Parseltongue so that I could understand what he’s saying to it,” he grumbled, staring angrily at the blazing fire. He hated not knowing what was going on, and, if he was completely honest with himself, he was missing the other boy rather badly.

Neville looked thoughtful at that, gazing into the near distance. Shortly, however, he looked back at Draco, a mischievous twinkle now visible in his eye. “I know a way you could understand it, temporarily.” Hope flared in Draco’s chest as he looked over at the other boy, but Longbottom would say no more. 

The next day in Herbology, Longbottom made a point of partnering with Draco. Surreptitiously, he slipped Draco a small parcel of odd purplish mushrooms.

“What are these?” Draco inquired, looking suspiciously at the fungi in his hand.

“Put those away!” Longbottom hissed, pushing Draco’s hands below the top of the bench they were working at. “I didn’t exactly ask Sprout if I could take them; I’m hoping she won’t notice, so don’t draw attention!” He glanced at Professor Sprout to make sure they were still unobserved before going on. “They’re called Babelfish Mushrooms,” he explained quietly, “a hybrid created by a Muggleborn wizard called Douglas Adams in the 1970s. He was a student of Sprout’s and she keeps some of them growing here that he sent her as a thank you. If you eat one, you’ll be able to understand any language spoken near you for a couple hours.” 

Draco looked at Longbottom in surprise. “You’re helping me spy on Potter?” he whispered in disbelief.

Longbottom looked shifty. “Just don’t mention it, okay?”

Draco tucked the mushrooms into his robe pocket, and for the next two days, he could feel them there, waiting for him, whispering promises of secrets revealed and questions answered. He kept his eyes on Potter as much as possible (not that that was much of a change from prior years, he supposed), observing him as he laughed and ate with his friends in the Great Hall, as he fumbled his way through Potions class without Draco’s help (for Draco had ceased to partner with him after their last joint effort had earned them only an Acceptable because Potter kept dithering about like a chastised house elf), and as he curled over books in the library, brow furrowed as he worked his way through complex Charms homework. 

Draco’s chance came late on the second day. Supper was over, and most of their year was either in the library or the common room engaged in finishing their homework. Draco was once again in the window seat, ostensibly studying, but keeping a surreptitious eye on the courtyard below. Before too long, he saw what he’d been watching for. Harry Potter entered the courtyard, his appealingly ( _ irritatingly, _ Draco corrected himself internally) wild black hair curling around his ears and winter robes wrapped tightly around his shoulders, and sat down on the ground.

Quickly, Draco closed his book and dashed to his dorm room, where he threw his own winter cloak around his shoulders and popped a mushroom into his mouth before making his way down to the entry to the courtyard. He walked softly as he chewed and swallowed the mushroom, keeping himself hidden behind the tall hedgerow edging the small brick space when he arrived, and tried to quiet his breathing as much as possible.

At first, all he could hear were the gentle hissing sounds of Harry and the snake conversing in Parseltongue. Soon, though, the sounds had begun to morph into words, although still sounding oddly snakelike. 

“ _ I know I’m being stupid,” _ Harry hissed to the snake, which was wrapped around his hand comfortably and looking him in the face, head bobbing slowly up and down, “ _ but once I noticed how pretty he is, I just… can’t talk around him anymore.” _

Draco’s breath stopped entirely as his brain processed the pronouns in this sentence. Potter was interested in men? Harry Potter, with his mad curly hair and blazing emerald eyes, his wide, happy smile and bony wrists (that Draco absolutely did not spend inordinate amounts of time contemplating in class) had a crush on a boy? A wave of jealousy washed over him, worse even than when Potter had begun dating the Weasley girl. He closed his eyes momentarily, forcing himself to focus on the conversation.

The snake looked at him for a moment, bobbing, before responding, “ _ Did you bring me any crickets?” _

Harry rolled his eyes, but brought a cricket out of his pocket and fed it to the snake.  _ “Fat lot of use you are,”  _ he hissed fondly before continuing his rant. “ _ It’s just that I didn’t even know I  _ ** _liked_ ** _ boys, let alone Malfoy!” _ he sighed, “ _ And now every time I’m near him I turn into a babbling idiot.” _

Completely without meaning to, Draco gasped aloud as his eyes shot open, quickly clapping a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound.

He wasn’t fast enough. Harry’s head whipped around at the sound, his eyes scanning the hedge that Draco was peering through. “Who’s there?” he asked suspiciously in English, his wand already in his hand and pointed in Draco’s general direction. Draco had a moment in which he thought about fleeing, but talked himself down.  _ Channel your inner Gryffindor, _ he told himself firmly, and stepped out from behind the hedge. Potter’s breath caught, and he looked slightly panicked for a moment before his face relaxed. Pocketing his wand, he clambered to his feet, carefully setting the garden snake down on the pavement. It hissed in displeasure at the cold and slithered away into the hedges.

“Malfoy,” Potter greeted, his voice only betraying the slightest of wobbles, which might not have even been noticeable to someone who wasn’t aware that he had been singing their praises in parseltongue the moment before.

“Potter,” Draco replied with a nod. Raising a pale eyebrow at the other boy and crossing his arms across his chest, he tilted his head to the side contemplatively, feigning a casual interest while his heart attempted to pound its way out of his chest. “So,” he drawled, “you find me pretty, do you?”

Potter’s face went red faster than Draco would have thought possible. “How did you…?” he blustered, “I mean, I… what?”

“I heard you talking to your little snake friend,” Draco responded with a smirk, somewhat reassured by Potter’s fluster, “you think I’m  _ pretty _ . You  _ like _ me. Is that why you’ve been acting like such a tosser lately?”

Potter turned, if possible, even redder. “I don’t… I mean I… honestly,  _ how _ do you know what I was saying?” His face couldn’t settle on an emotion, flicking swiftly from embarrassment to confusion to resignation. 

Draco pulled the little bag of mushrooms from his pocket, holding them out to show the other boy. “Babelfish mushrooms,” he said casually. “They let you understand any language temporarily.” 

Harry swore under his breath, looking away from the Slytherin, his face settling deeper into resignation but with hints of something that looked a bit like fear. Draco didn’t like it at all, he found.

“Hey, Potter,” he said, dropping his faux confidence and allowing his voice to soften. “It’s okay. I’m not going to be an arse about it or anything.” Harry glanced at him skeptically, a slight frown turning down the corners of his mouth, but he didn’t say anything. Draco drew courage from the silence and continued. “In fact I… find you rather… _ pretty _ … yourself,” he managed, although he grimaced slightly at the word ‘pretty,’ which didn’t suit Potter at all. “Well, more like handsome I suppose, but…” he trailed off, feeling extraordinarily exposed. 

Potter, however, had begun to smile. His head turned back in the direction of Malfoy, still lowered, but with his eyes glancing hopefully at the blond from under thick, black lashes. “Yeah?” he asked hesitantly. Then his eyes hardened slightly, and he straightened. “I swear, Malfoy, if you’re just trying to get me to confess things so that you can take the mickey...” he warned, raising one hand to point at the other boy. 

Screwing up every ounce of courage he had inside of him, Draco took the few steps needed to close the distance between them. Taking hold of the pointing hand, he leaned in and, trying not to think too hard about it, pressed his lips to Potter’s, effectively cutting off any continuation of what had potentially been a tirade in the making. He pulled back quickly, dropping the other boy’s hand, and looked on with his nerves sparking uncomfortably under every inch of his skin to gauge the Gryffindor’s reaction.

Harry looked stunned. His eyes wide, he lifted the hand that Draco had just dropped to his lips. “Yeah?” he whispered behind his own fingers.

The hope in his eyes was so beautiful that Draco thought he might cry.  _ Gods, I’ve wanted this _ , he thought to himself, finally allowing the denial to fall away completely. “Yeah,” he responded with a shaky smile. A grin spread across Potter’s face, his hand falling away from his mouth, and he stepped forward to close the gap between them again, bringing the hand up to slide it into the cornsilk of Draco’s hair and pull him closer, bringing their lips barely a breath away from one another’s. “Okay?” he murmured. Draco nodded, suddenly unable to speak. Potter closed the distance, pressing his lips gently to the Slytherin’s once again. Draco’s eyes fell shut as he savored the cool press of winter-chilled lips against his own. With a soft sigh, he deepened the kiss, capturing Potter’s bottom lip between his own briefly before brushing it lightly with his tongue. With a receptive hum, Potter parted his lips in invitation, his tongue darting forward to meet Draco’s in a teasing dance. 

Draco moaned, feeling tingly all over as he wrapped his arms around Potter’s shoulders, pulling them flush. Potter’s other hand wrapped around the Slytherin’s waist and his grip tightened in the fine blond hair as the kiss turned from teasing to fiery.  _ Oh _ , Draco thought dazedly as he wrapped himself up in the warmth and joy that was Harry Potter wanting him,  _ I’m going to owe Longbottom a favor. _

From a window one story above, Neville Longbottom, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger observed the two boys so utterly absorbed in one another from a familiar cathedral window.

“Took them long enough,” Ron opined.

“Well, they got there in the end,” Neville responded with a soft smile.

“Yes, and we owe you for that one,” Hermione acknowledged. “He was driving us mad; it was almost as bad as sixth year.”

Neville just smiled. The trio watched the couple for a few moments more before turning away to give them their privacy, chatting about classes and their upcoming NEWTs. Below them, Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter kissed each other senseless in the crisp winter air as snow began softly to fall around them.


End file.
